“Now, a rather important question . . . Why do you suppose it was you who woke while your fellow scholars did not?”
There seemed to be only one logical answer. “A mistake. The blood wasn’t applied properly, or the sigil was malformed in some way.”
Davud knew little enough about blood magic, but he’d read some texts of magi who’d attempted to share what they’d learned, to pass it along to others. A blood mage conceptualized the effects they hoped to achieve when they applied or imbibed blood. In written form these effects were called sigils—complex symbols of power with layer upon layer of meaning—but the term “sigil” also applied to the layering the magi did within their minds to effect the spells. There were dozens of stories of magi applying sigils improperly, from haste or poor memory. Most often the spell would simply fail. Other times the intended effect would be altered or weakened. Rarely, the effect would be something unintended and potentially disastrous for the mage.
“Reasonable enough inferences, yet both are incorrect.” Hamzakiir was becoming winded, as was Davud. “Have you no other guesses?”
Davud thought back to how he’d awoken, the strange dizziness, the heartbeat he’d felt that had seemed like someone else’s. He’d thought it a remnant of some dream. But now, looking back, it felt wrong and unnatural. “I might have said you woke me,” Davud finally replied, “but you were surprised when I was pulled up on deck, intrigued that I’d done so, so that can’t be it.”
After several more turns, they came to an upper room of a minaret, a lookout of sorts. The ceiling was made of the same reddish stone as the stairs they’d climbed, but the floor was covered in a beautiful, if somewhat worn, patterned mosaic. They were three stories up, and overlooked the desert in the distance and a jumble of buildings nearby. A desert keep, perhaps. But as Davud stepped closer to the stone balustrade, he realized how wrong he was. There were several dozen buildings, even a plot of land off to his left with green fields. They were in a caravanserai, though which it might be he wasn’t sure. From the direction they’d been sailing, he guessed Ishmantep, or perhaps farther along the eastern caravan route to Tiazet or Ashdankaat.
Strangely, Davud felt more vibrant than before. The sun, he told himself. It must be the sun and the heat of the desert breeze.
“Let me tell you a tale,” Hamzakiir said as he stepped beside Davud. “Many years ago, there was a young man born to the Kings of Sharakhai. A first son. He was trained in many things, and among them as a linguist so that he might follow in King Ihsan’s footsteps, perhaps one day to work in his stead, negotiating trade agreements with the kingdoms that surround the Great Mother. One day he was taken to Qaimir, merely to listen, to learn from the Honey-tongued King as he spoke on topics that had long been discussed between Sharakhai and the southern kingdom. The Qaimiri king was of a mind to forge an accord that would, if enacted, grievously harm a family that had long been one of the proudest in their grand history but that had fallen on hard times as their monopoly on the southern shipping routes steadily eroded.
“The Qaimiri king met with Ihsan for long days, and eventually they reached an agreement. They had but to sign the documents that our young son drafted under Ihsan’s strict guidance. That very night, a feast was held. Rich food was served. Red wine was poured. The conversation was gay, for many in Qaimir were set to benefit from the agreement. But as the dinner wore on, King Ihsan grew quieter, as did his retinue, all but our young man. He noted the odd behavior of his countrymen, but thought it a symptom of how very late they’d been working the past many days.
“But then he saw the Honey-tongued King take up a knife. The moment the King did, the others in Ihsan’s retinue moved against those from Qaimir, and did so violently, pushing them away from the King’s chair at the head of the table. The first son was confused, to put it mildly, but there was so much more to it than met the eye. He felt a tug on his soul like a deep craving for food, or for sex, only stronger, nearly undeniable. It was this, he knew, that the King and the others from his homeland had succumbed to. He knew that his King had no ill will toward the King of Qaimir, so he held him, shouted for Ihsan to return to himself.”
Hamzakiir’s gaze shifted, his eyes caught by a line of dark-hulled ships with sails like scythes. They were curving around a hill in the distance, heading for the caravanserai. Hamzakiir was talking about himself, Davud knew, this first son of Sharakhai, but for the life of him he still had no idea why he was telling this tale. A tug on his soul, he’d said. A compulsion, the sort blood magi can lay upon others. It was to do with the family, Davud understood, the one who’d been slighted, else why mention them at all? And with that simple connection, Davud began to understand.
“It was you, but your abilities had not yet manifested.”
Hamzakiir pulled his gaze away from the approaching ships, a hint of a smile on his lips and at the corners of his wrinkled eyes. “Indeed, they had not.” He turned away, brushing sand and dust from the balustrade as if it offended him. The sand fluttered away, taken by the wind to curl down toward the red roof below. “As it turned out, the Qaimiri family had several careful, if not particularly strong, blood magi in their employ. They had conspired to have their King Rejando killed, but failed when a man traveling with King Ihsan had the potential to become a magi himself. He would one day become quite strong, I’m not afraid to say, but on that day I knew nothing of my talents in the dark ways of blood.”
There was only one conclusion Davud could come to that made any sense. Davud waking when none of the others lying in the hold of that ship had. Hamzakiir’s strange reaction when Davud had been brought to the deck. This strange separation from all the others. The conversation they were having now. “You think I have the same potential.”
“It has likely come as a surprise, for I can see now that no one has ever told you of your potential. But yes, Davud Mahzun’ava. You might become a blood mage. If you so chose.”
“If I chose? Why by the gods’ sweet breath would I choose that?”
“There is much given to the mage. More than you can imagine.”
“I know enough. To deal in blood is to deal in misery, to drink of death.”
Hamzakiir shook his head violently. “To deal in blood is to deal in life!”
“The edge of a blade brings only pain.”
“And yet by killing an enemy you may save the innocent,” Hamzakiir countered.
Davud laughed. “You speak of the innocent. What of the scholars you stole from the forum? Is this the life you spoke of, to wield them in some way against the Kings?”
“What do my purposes have to do with it? If I cut a man down with the swing of a shamshir, could you not use the same weapon to save a child?”
Some of the bravado had drained from Davud, and he began to feel alone and very afraid. “Where are my friends?”
“That must remain with me.”
Davud stared out over the distant dunes, watched the people of the caravanserai walk about the streets, saw the docks where crews worked the ships, readying them to set sail. “Why would you want to teach me anything?”
“Do you know how the red ways were first brought to the Shangazi?”
“By the Qaimiri.”
“True, but from whom did they learn them?”
Davud had no idea. He’d never had cause to study any of this.
“A child of Goezhen,” Hamzakiir went on. “An ehrekh. One of the elder beasts made by the god of chaos in the early days of his dark experiments. Like many ehrekh, this elder hungered for the blood of man, for we are blessed with the blood of the first gods. The young gods are not, and the children of Goezhen are doubly damned, for Goezhen instilled in them much of his own hunger. The ehrekh went to Qaimir in the guise of a wizard. He lived among them for many long years, and although he tasted of their blood, there were also those he came to love. He allowed them to watch while he worked. It amused
him to teach them his ways. Indeed, to see them prosper, to use their own blood in ways even he hadn’t thought of. It proved his undoing. More than a century after crossing the border into Qaimir, he was killed by two of his disciples, twin sisters, both of them adepts.”
“I care for my friends, not stories of Qaimir.”
Hamzakiir pursed his lips, glancing at Davud in the way a man of the streets might size up an approaching threat. “Your impudence grates.”
“I wish only to take leave of this place with my brothers and sisters by my side.”
“A path no longer open to you.”
“Then what? You expect me to be taught by you? Why would I ever allow such a thing?”
“The twin sisters,” Hamzakiir said. “They had a brother who, as was later learned, might become gifted in the ways of blood. They didn’t know it, but the ehrekh did, and because of some perceived slight, the ehrekh let the boy go through his change unaided.”
“His change?”
Hamzakiir turned now to Davud, a most curious look on his face. “There are those who might become a blood mage and never know it. They go through life none the wiser. But there are those who, once awoken, are taken by it, by the very need for blood.”
At last it was dawning on Davud why Hamzakiir had looked at him so strangely on the deck of the ship, with a look akin to pity, why he’d separated Davud from the other graduates, and why, most importantly, he was making this strange offer.
“You think I will die from this change . . .”
“If left alone, your death is a certainty. It’s indisputable that the strength of the one who first touches you with blood will affect just how quickly the change will come—that and the potential of the one touched. I’ve seen many over the years who might walk the red ways. I’ve seen few with gifts such as yours. You might become powerful indeed, but only if you survive the change that is coming.”
Davud shook his head. “Again I ask you why?”
Like a chef wandering the stalls of the spice market, Hamzakiir seemed to choose his next words with care. “Some have died from the change because they never knew and had no hope of being saved. Others died because it was their time, and the lord of all things had summoned them. But there are some few who perish even though their nature is very much known, to themselves and those with the ability to aid them. They die because in many parts of the world the red paths are shunned, and magi are killed for practicing it. And in some rare cases”—Hamzakiir paused to glance at Davud—“it is nothing more than a cold choice made for personal gain.”
Davud knew Hamzakiir was testing him, but he didn’t understand what he was getting at. He was sick of this game. He didn’t trust Hamzakiir to tell him the truth. And yet the mystery Hamzakiir presented nagged at him. Had someone died who Hamzakiir cared about? Had he felt betrayed by it?
And then Davud understood. It was simple with all the pieces laid out. Hamzakiir was the son of Külaşan the Wandering King. He was also a very powerful blood mage, and he’d just told Davud how he’d stumbled onto his own abilities in Qaimir. But he hadn’t been a mage at the time. He’d not yet gone through his change. He was a first son and, as such, would have needed permission from the Kings to get the training he needed, especially considering that at that time, generations ago, blood magi were persecuted in Sharakhai.
“Your father denied you your training,” Davud finally said.
“Tried to deny me,” Hamzakiir corrected. “In gratitude to my actions, the Qaimiri king offered it himself. But my father was a coward. He considered sons and daughters cheaply made, and reasoned that a dead son was less nuisance than having a blood magi walk the halls of his palace. So I fled Sharakhai and traveled to Qaimir on my own. I found my way into their halls of learning despite my father’s demands that I return, despite the Twelve Kings applying steadily mounting pressure.” He paused for a moment, considering, his piercing eyes weighing Davud more carefully than he had before. “So now you see. As surely as the sun does rise, you will die without my help.” He raised one hand toward the bright oasis and the caravanserai surrounding it. “Do you choose to live and to learn?” His other hand he raised toward the dark set of stairs leading down. “Or do you wish to hide in a hole until your nature catches up with you?”
“Days ago you were ready to kill me.”
He nodded, granting Davud the point. “A man can change his mind.”
Davud felt his breath coming on him, felt his pulse pounding in his neck. “I would kill you had I the chance, in order to free them.”
“I would expect no less.”
Dear gods, what could he do? He didn’t want to die. He wanted to travel. To learn. To see more of this grand world. But all that had changed. The gods care little for your hopes and fears. And then a thought occurred to him. “Free some of them, and I will do as you ask.”
Hamzakiir shook his head like the stoic monks who lived in mountain monasteries and came from time to time to Sharakhai. “As I’ve said, their fate is sealed.”
He thought of Anila and Meiwei and Jasur. Bakhi forgive him, he didn’t wish to blaspheme by choosing the living from among the dead, but he couldn’t stop without at least trying. “Give me three of them. What is a mere handful to you?”
But to this Hamzakiir merely shook his head again. “That I cannot do.”
“Then return me to the darkness.”
Hamzakiir seemed to be weighing Davud’s words against this strange compulsion not merely to save Davud but to set him on a path neither of them would have predicted. “You will come to regret this.”
“I don’t care.” The words sounded petulant, even to Davud’s ear.
“The first days of the change may be kind to the body,” Hamzakiir went on. “You may feel euphoric, your body as sound as it has ever been. As the days wear on, however, you will be plunged into an unending pool of misery.”
He was right on the first count. Davud did feel potent. But he could not simply abandon his friends.
“So be it,” Hamzakiir finally said, motioning to the stairs.
Davud thought of pleading one last time, but he could see that Hamzakiir wasn’t going to change his mind, so after one last glance to the bright of the desert, the green of the nearby fields, the blue of the pool at the center of the caravanserai, he turned and headed into the darkness. Down he wound, ever lower, the chill of the earth clinging to him, until he found himself at the edge of the deep pit once more. He climbed down, sat holding himself as the rope was pulled up. Then Hamzakiir’s footsteps faded, and Davud was alone once more.
Chapter 30
IN A COVERED ARABA PULLED BY A PAIR of short but stout ponies, Meryam sat on a padded bench next to Ramahd. The driver was whistling shrilly at a mule dray moving too slow for his liking, but a moment later, the araba lurched as the driver led them over a large pothole and moved past the dray.
The sun was bright, the air stifling compared to the wide open wind he’d grown accustomed to on the voyage aboard the tribesmen’s ship. It felt strange to be riding along the Trough after being gone from Sharakhai for so long. He glanced over at Meryam, who sat on his left staring at the city with emotionless eyes. Stranger still after all that he and Meryam had been through since leaving the Shangazi with Hamzakiir, their prize.
Ramahd snorted softly, returning his gaze to the busy street as their araba forged its way through traffic. Some prize, he thought. No sooner had we reached our home than our prize turned the tables. And now it had cost them their king. It had cost Ramahd his best man in Dana’il.
Ramahd blinked away the vision of Dana’il lying dead on the dungeon floor and instead leaned out and stared up at the immensity of Tauriyat, the amber megalith standing to the east of the city center. He’d been sent to Sharakhai to keep an eye on the Kings, but he’d been driven by his thirst to avenge the deaths of his wife and child. And now his king was dead, hi
s bones bleaching somewhere out on the sands of the Shangazi. Hamzakiir had played them all for fools.
“Did he allow himself to be taken?” he wondered.
“What?” Meryam croaked, still watching the crowd.
“Hamzakiir,” he said softly. “Did he allow himself to be taken?”
“To what purpose?”
“To toy with us. Or to gain some distance from the Host so that he could approach them again on his own terms.”
She turned to him, her sunken eyes aflame. “What matter is that now?”
Ramahd was ready to object, but Meryam’s look was so fierce he didn’t press. She got that look most often whenever her father was mentioned. Surely she felt guilt over what had happened, but she never said so. As Yasmine had always done, she was surely using it as fuel for the fire that drove her, a thirst that could never be quenched. It made him wonder just what she had planned now that they’d returned to Sharakhai.
“No matter,” Ramahd said at last.
She looked him up and down, as if annoyed at his very presence, then returned her gaze to the throngs moving along the Trough.
They soon reached the Wheel, then went east toward the gates of Tauriyat. The Silver Spears manning it inspected them carefully. The two of them shared a dubious look, and seemed ready to send them away, when Meryam said, “Ask him,” and pointed to a captain of the guard. Ramahd recognized him, and thankfully he recognized both Ramahd and Meryam. “Please accept my apologies, my lady,” the captain said, bowing deeply to them. “If there’s anything the consulate needs, I trust you’ll have your servants inform me.”
Meryam, lying back in the bench with a sour, pained expression, said nothing, but Ramahd waved to the captain, and soon they were off to the manor where they’d spent so much time in Sharakhai.
They were met with open-mouthed stares by their countrymen. Basilio, a distant cousin of Meryam’s and the man who had taken Ramahd’s place as the Qaimiri ambassador here in Sharakhai, led them in himself. “Please, is there anything I might do to help after your harrowing journey?”
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